Scars
by Hero Protagonist
Summary: The newest professor caused several eyebrows to raise the moment he stepped foot in the monastery including Shamir's. She quickly found herself keeping a closer eye on him than she meant to, questions that lacked answers finding their way into her head. (A reference to the weapon Byleth wields is the only spoiler in this story.) Shamir x Byleth one shot? Inspired by BaconByTheBits


**Scars**

Shamir crept carefully under a shroud of secrecy that a patch of trees promised, her azure orbs never letting a head of green hair out of her field of vision. She was serving as overwatch, making sure that head remained on its shoulders as the professor it belonged to strategically set himself a short distance ahead of his students. It was an invitation for an ambush, and he needed his best sharpshooter, his words not hers, to serve as a guardian angel.

Despite having the power to wield The Sword of the Creator, the professor was still human. The rumour mill that the monastery could become was hell bent on believing the contrary, but the scars he wore from his life as a mercenary dispelled the notion. Those that spread the rumour had certainly never seen him in battle, had never seen those scars.

Shamir on the other hand, had. Not that there was a time in her life where she would've given credence to the idea. However, his transition to pedagogy had seemed seamless to her, making her question if he truly had been a merc. He had held the title for sure, the Blade Breaker had left no doubt about that, but how involved he was in carrying out the contracts his father took was undeterminable. At least, until you saw him in battle, gotten a chance to see those scars.

Mental confirmation had come first. She knew they were there the second she saw him swing his sword, the action refined and economic. It carried the weight of experience, brought on by a curriculum of lessons taught by both Jeralt and all of those that were determined to take the professor's life on the battlefield. Soldiers, bandits, whatever soul that had been written down on a sheet of paper no matter the path they took in life. Each determined to return to whatever home they had that night, but their chance to do so forfeited the moment they wronged whomever had assigned a monetary value to their name.

Visual confirmation came on a different occasion, on a battlefield where an enemy cavalier had charged toward him with reckless abandon. The professor had been more focused on protecting a new student, and was caught off guard with little time to react. His body's clean movements wavered slightly, his composure cracking just enough as he rolled out of the way. His dodge hadn't been a moment too soon, the cavalier's lance managing to tear the fabric of his sleeve. The torn material strained as the professor swung his arm in reply to the attack, his magic sword extending into a bladed whip that wrapped around one of the hind legs of the horse that had just threatened to trample him. He yanked the mount off balance, sending its rider flying before a blade of wind passed through him courtesy of a student insulted that someone dared to take up arms against their beloved professor.

The near fatal attack, wild movement, and magical invocation of the elements had caused the damaged sleeve to open up just enough to reveal a physical impression that something or someone had left in tandem with any invisible mental ones.

Shamir's trained eyes had caught it from a distance, leaving no doubt in her mind that some of his students must've caught it too. She wondered if they would ask about it, wondered how he'd answer.

Would he shrug it off and say it was simply the receipt for the life of a mercenary? Or would he go into detail about the encounter that was determined to never be lost to time?

She wondered because she had done both things. Shrugged them off for those who didn't need to know, but gone into detail for those worthy of knowing. At the time there had only been two people that fit into the latter category with no one else coming close, but now…

Would he tell her about them? Was she worthy of knowing? The idea that this mattered should be absurd, as absurd as the notion that they'd have an at length conversation when all they ever needed to say tended to be communicated through their expressions. Fódlan's or even Dagda's linguistics weren't required.

"Shamir?" Byleth's voice startled her awake.

She was in his office, in the corner she frequented when she had time 'off' or a task she could do anywhere with a desk.

The greens of the forest floor had turned to the royal purple of a dyed carpet. The shroud of secrecy now maintained by four immaculate stone walls. Instead of watching over him, he had been watching over her, his eyes holding slight concern. It was a realization and observation that threatened to turn her cheeks pink as she struggled to find her voice.

"I apologize for disturbing your meditation," he said, not mockingly, but mercifully giving her an out. "There are some final preparations I need to step out of my office to take care of before our march tomorrow."

Shamir could only nod, somewhat dumbly she thought, as she gathered her things and struggled to stay composed as she left his office.

She was embarrassed she had fallen asleep. Embarrassed he had seen It. Embarrassed it had been in his office. But most of all, embarrassed because now more than ever she wanted to know.

* * *

**(A/N): **Hope you enjoyed! It's been a bit since I've written something, but my obsession with Three Houses along with another writer's work got me to sit down and write. I want to give a shout out to the writer, BaconByTheBits, and if you haven't already I recommend reading their story A Smile Worth a Million Words if you want some more BylethxShamir goodness.

Feel free to leave feedback if you feel inclined.


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